


horribly steal your heart

by corrupted_voracity



Series: topgoro week │ january 2021 [4]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bottom Persona 5 Protagonist, Catboy!Akira, Hate Sex, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Tail Kink, The 50th fic where I make Akira black out after Goro fucks him, Though it's more angry sex I suppose, Top Akechi Goro, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28769511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrupted_voracity/pseuds/corrupted_voracity
Summary: Akira's cat instincts cause him to get stuck in a vent in the middle of Shido's ship.He prays for his friends to find a way to get him out, unaware that a vindictive detective already found him.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: topgoro week │ january 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093454
Comments: 7
Kudos: 158
Collections: TopGoroWeek #1 2021





	horribly steal your heart

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said I'd mix it up from now on? I misstook day 4 for another prompt nghgh have fun with Akira getting fucked the life out of him again. At least with some Goro POV.
> 
> Before you say anything - yes, this is a stuck-in-a-vent fic and yes, I did not post it for the day where the prompt is actually used.
> 
> **While Akira's not fully against it, it's still heavy dub con to the point I tagged it as non-con. Please keep that in mind before you proceed.**
> 
> Morgana is on vacation for this one, and Akira is a catboy that doesn't get affected by Shido's mouse spell.
> 
>  **day 4: hate sex**  
>  (I stretched the meaning a little)

One second Akira has six very human Phantom Thieves surrounding him, the other second they’re gone and Akira feels his ear twitch in interest as he exams the newly appeared bundle of mice.

Anything that’s currently weighing on his shoulders is suddenly gone, vacuumed, thrown outside his trajectory like when he got warped around in a cognitive space station.

The mice tremble.

Akira’s tongue darts out.

They bolt, and Akira chases after them without a second thought.

There’s a tiny vent right at the end of the hallway, but Akira knows they all won’t fit inside at the same time.

Predictably, the mice take a sharp turn, momentarily disappearing out of Akira’s vision, but he’s only going faster, grinning wildly at the thought of getting to sink his claws into the fuzzy fur until squeaks would turn into sweet cries for mercy.

Luck seems to be on his side because there are no shadows in what seems like an endless maze of hallways. Akira quickly turns his head and runs down the path where he sees a horde of gray tippling over the carpet with their tiny feet, hoping to escape their predator.

_How futile._

Akira lunges after them, all sleek, feline grace – it’s clear what they’re aiming for, because there’s a vent at the end of the hallway. Higher, and while not as big as the others, wide enough for them to make it in time. 

It’s impossible for normal mice to reach, but while the order of Akira’s priorities might have undergone a drastic shift, he’s still aware that they’re in an alternative reality where most things are possible if you just believe enough. Or something like that. And as expected, the small group of mice jump one after another, barely catching themselves at the edge but able to scramble upwards.

It’s alright, because even though it seems to be a tight fit, Akira knows he’ll manage.

He doesn’t.

The only thing managing to push his shoulders past what’s really too small for him is the momentum of his attempt to dive head first after the mice. 

His shoulder _hurt_ – it feels like he involuntarily bent his bones to fit inside, scraped them brutally along the metal walls that show no mercy to his obviously bigger frame.

But Akira sees the mice – there are funny, little masks on their faces, now that he looks intently – and they’re so close, nearly in his reach that he just needs to scrap forward a little more. Determination is the key to victory, he’s sure.

Akira suddenly realizes the vent he’s trapped in appears to be immediately opening into two directions – left and right, meaning that with an agonizing groan and some questionable wriggling, Akira’s shoulders are finally free, relief exploding within him, his arms able to move around the cross-section.

God, it’s a little too warm here, coat and all.

He reaches out with his right hand, trying to grab the mouse closest to him. Fuck. His arm is still too short, the vent too long. 

Akira tries to push himself forward, and only now realizes his legs are kind of dangling above the ground just the slightest bit, unable to propel him forward. So Akira tries to push himself off the side vents with his hand, but his- his hips are in the way and Akira lets out an annoyed hiss, tail swinging wildly with irritation.

Fuck.

He won’t get any closer with this.

A small squeak catches Akira’s attention. The mice are still there, pressed against the metal wall, but not shaking as much as before now that it’s clear he can’t get to them. What a shame. He’d love to tear off their colorful masks, maybe see what lies underneath, their fearful expression before-

Akira blinks. 

Images of who these small bodies actually entail flash before his mind, and he finally gains control back.

Oh.

Tension and adrenaline of the chase leave him in an instant. Akira’s ear flatten like wilting flowers, and he’d like to hide his face so the other’s aren’t able to see his embarrassment of falling so suddenly for his base instincts, but there’s little room for him to do anything.

At least it should be dark enough for his burning cheeks to go unnoticed. 

“Sorry,” Akira says, shaking his head and wetting his dry lips. “I don’t- I don’t know what got over me.”

He gets like this, sometimes. When seeing a ball of yarn in the convenience store, or a small, circular ray of light on the ground. A particular scratch to his ear or chin.

It’s like a switch is flipped – as soon as he sees or feels something that's just triggering, he’s gone until either a second party snaps him out of it, or he miraculously realizes it himself. 

And whatever caused the Phantom Thieves to turn into mice, it didn’t affect him and… turned him into the mindless cat. 

It’s horribly cliché for his kind, but at the same time Akira just can’t fight it.

Maybe he’s still a bit shaken from the beating he took in the interrogation room, too. Akira hasn’t been in the best mental state since that, considering the circumstances around it.

The knowledge that on some plane of existence, he was getting ruthlessly shot.

Right now, Akira’s just happy the vent doesn’t make him feel as if his lungs are reduced to half their size.

A mouse he recognizes as Futaba tipples over to his hand, softly nudging it. Akira manages a small smile, squashing down the urge to grab and squeeze and instead pets her softly.

“Wait, I’ll get out. Let me just-”

Akira falters and blinks as he realizes his body isn’t moving. Not because his limbs are numb or frozen (though his shoulder still throbs uncomfortably), but because it’s physically unable to follow along with his demands.

The current predicament dawns on Akira.

His legs are completely useless – not even counting the fact he just barely touches the floor and therefor not having any leverage, Akira can’t even kick himself off a little because the width of his shoulders prevent him from slipping back into the first vent, but at the same time Akira can’t get much further inside and possibly explore the directions of the vents because his lower half prevents that?

“Guys,” Akira says, slowly; trying not to sound panicked. 

He must not be doing a good job at that because he thinks Haru and Makoto already stare at him with unrestrained judgment in their eyes. As judging as black buttons could look, at least.

“I’m- I’m stuck.”

Akira’s sure he doesn’t imagine the collective round of sighs going through the group of Phantom Thief mice, and his ears burn with shame at the absurdity of his situation. He will absolutely not explain his hips or ass or whatever are too big to get him further inside.

Fuck, he’d rather go and embarrass himself with that maid call action Mishima and Ryuji roped him into a second time than experience _this_ again. 

Leader of the phantom thieves, defeated by a fucking vent. 

“My shoulders are too wide. I squeezed them through because of the jump, but I can’t go back,” Akira explains. “Uhm, I guess you’ll have to find a way to free me? Get someone to pull me out?”

Well, Akira isn’t even lying, though he may have shifted the truth a bit.

Another round of sighs and a few exasperated stares. 

Akira averts his gaze, tail bashfully wrapped around his thigh for small semblances of comfort. He feels a little pathetic, getting reprimanded by mice like this when he’s a cat himself.

Akira doesn’t really know what they’re now squeaking about, but half of them go to the left side after a while, half to the right, and he understands that they’re going to explore the side vents, hopefully finding a way to reverse their spell and get back to his position.

Well.

Akira’s left alone, and he waits.

* * *

Goro’s pissed.

He’s livid, he’s fuming, he’s burning, he wants to dig his hands into Kurusu’s chest and tear it open, maybe rip the world apart in the process.

But Goro’s also irritatingly excited, possibly even happy, if such a word manages to resound somewhere within his mashed self, and he wants to stitch Kurusu back together and the ruptured world too, just so he can do it all over again.

Of course Kurusu isn’t dead.

A small part of Goro even knew that the second he pulled his trigger and watched blood splatter, but it was momentarily consumed by both horror and disgusting satisfaction that writhed in his stomach like worms, only to be deliberately forgotten, a ballast he threw over the ship like everything else that didn’t prove its worth after a few seconds of careful observation.

The revelation, realization that Kurusu is still alive, having walked around in the city what must be days, possibly right under his nose with those alluring, twitching ears hidden by a hood so he wouldn’t recognize him – fuck.

This stupid attic trash.

But he doesn’t declare just anyone his rival.

While Kurusu, against Goro’s expectations, continuously proved himself with every match of words and actions they fought, this is the ultimate proof that nobody else is worthier of holding it.

And the knowledge that Goro’s not as perpetuated by his own failure as he should be, given how much work he’s put into this shit how mixes with his exasperation at the Phantom Thieves stupid fucking plan they dared to put their leader through that wasn’t even worth calling one, scraped from mere gum that stick to their shoes – yes, Goro’s beyond pissed for most likely all the wrong reasons.

He doesn’t care, though. Goro’s angry and would like to either fight or fuck his coped amount of frustration out, maybe distract himself from the disgusting crawl on his skin every time he’s on Shido’s ship too while he’s at it.

Kurusu’s given him quite a lot of sexual… frustration, so to say, with the stupid twinkle in his eyes and how every line of his body manages to curl the most enticing ways even when he’s doing the most unattractive activities known to mankind.

Washing dishes, for example.

God knows how many hours in his life Goro spent burning holes into Kurusu’s back while seated at the counter, imagining him in all kind of scenarios, from embarrassing hand-holding ones when he was especially weak and had a shitty day and just wanted someone to care for him beyond his looks and reputation, to notions that involved an unrealistic amount of blood for only one bullet, to fantasies like bending Kurusu over the counter and fuck him so hard that both his glasses and irritating smile slip off his face. 

All while the other was busy scrubbing food remnants off of plates.

The fucking nerve Kurusu had.

Maybe Goro’s a little more frustrated than he initially anticipated.

That very frustration shows in the way he only needs to glare for shadows to part for him like Moses conquered water. Some even bow, something they’ve never done before. 

Maybe it’s the princely attire he still adorns, Robin Hood gently humming behind his eyes, or the amount of wrath he emits, Loki prowling with his sword and waiting for his turn. 

Goro’s arrived at the inner parts of the ship, hallways and rooms representing Shido’s superiority complex. He guesses he should be grateful that Shido sees him enemy enough for his Metaverse attire to appear despite being his supposedly closest ally, but not enough for him to turn into a helpless rodent.

He takes a turn, and almost stops in his tracks when the shadow at the end of the hallway doesn’t immediately scramble, transfixed by whatever it’s staring at.

Only when Goro’s close enough does the shadow break out of its stupor and hurries away. 

Currently, Goro isn’t really interested in matters beyond the goal to get Kurusu between his fingers, but he’s curious to see what managed to distract a shadow enough for it to do something as foolish as completely ignoring Goro’s presence.

So he turns – and his usually so adaptive brain needs some seconds to process the image that displays itself in front of him.

Heeled boots are just barely able to touch the floor. Goro follows the long line of them up, going over black pants until distinctive, three tailcoats join the line of his journey, coming together just above the curve of a rear that definitely belongs to Kurusu who is – he inhales sharply - stuck inside a vent.

Goro should kill him.

Finish what he both cried and laughed over.

But it’d be so fucking pathetic. Goro imagines ending Kurusu with a stab of his sword or a single spell he doesn’t even need to _aim_ in order to blow him up.

But all of these notions leave him unfulfilled.

A bitter taste that only goes away because Goro _envisioned_ it coating his taste buds.

Because Kurusu is utterly helpless, trapped inside confines of metal, most likely not even aware that Goro’s here and he wonders how the fuck his rival who’s the only one capable, _worthy_ of matching him managed to get into this ridicioulus situation. 

He just- he just can’t kill him.

Not like this. 

Goro grits his teeth with restrained anger. Even in such a pathetic state, Kurusu still has so much influence over him when he has absolutely no right to. 

It’s irritating, scratching at Goro’s skin like an entire bush of nettles.

A black shape moves – Goro’s momentarily confused. It takes him a few seconds to realize it’s a tail that’s been previously wrapped around a thigh, now lazily swinging in the air, curling at random intervals like it has a life on its own, so fluent and languid that it seems to breach the limits of physics.

Goro’s reminded of all the times he wanted to touch Kurusu’s exotic features – do what comes so easily to all of his pesky friends. A pet to his head that’d transition into soft nudges of twitching ears, the teasing tug of a tail that only imbecile Sakamoto ever dared to do because Akira lets out the possibly highest sound whenever that happens, hitting a range the tone of his vocal chords don’t suggest.

Always followed by flustered indignance and the reminder _not to do that._

Sakamoto doesn’t know how to tug at Kurusu's tail properly. Neither does Goro, but he wants to find out.

Have Kurusu curled up on his lap, happily dozing away while Goro’d read a book above him, have him purr with movements of his hands that Goro would study religiously.

Robin’s amused, but Loki doesn’t like the direction where his thought are going because a small wave of groundless anger reminds Goro why he’s here and what Kurusu has _done_ and now he wants to tug at his tail until Kurusu screams, pain being the primary component to carry his voice onward.

But seeing him so vulnerable, so… _helplessly_ trapped stirs something inside of Goro. 

And he has an idea.

A much better one Kurusu unconsciously seems to agree with, because he chose that moment to wriggle a little, the form of his ass going from side to side. 

All accompanied by lazy, _careless_ swirls of a tail, as if to entice him further, unaware of the dangerous progress of thoughts taking place inside Goro’s head, yet feeding into it anyway. 

Again, _affecting_ Goro without even being aware of it. 

It’s the last straw.

Carefully sorting out his remaining thoughts and neatly locking away what he doesn’t need right now, Goro makes his steps audible as he closes their distance, pushing his mask out of his face.

Kurusu’s tail reacts first. It freezes in its movement before going lower, swiping in almost wary movements just as Kurusu starts his useless struggling again. He’s trying a bit harder this time, managing a few inches before slumping down again, making it clear that he’s utterly stuck.

How pathetic.

“Yusuke? Is that you?” Kurusu rumbles, voice muffled and dampened by the metal around him.

Irritation strikes Goro like a wrong chord. So the other Thieves were around, but not here. Obviously. At least he didn’t confuse him with the likes of Sakamoto, most likely already having figured the blonde idiot would have yelled the moment he saw Kurusu. 

God knows what Goro would have done if Kurusu mistook him for Sakamoto. 

“Thank god you’re finally here. Uhm, as you can see I’m stuck? If you could-”

Finally standing behind Kurusu, Goro slowly puts his left hand on his hip, careful not to just immediately _tear_ into flesh. 

Perfect height, perfect position for what he has in mind. He smiles cruelly though it’s only to be seen by him and his personas, spreads his fingers out a bit wider to feel the shudder going through Kurusu’s entire body even better.

Goro goes higher, feeling the lovely dip of a waist.

Oh, how much he could and will do.

Robin retracts, and Loki’s purr line the edge of his next words.

“Does this feel like Kitagawa to you, Joker?”

* * *

Akira would have jumped out of his skin on any other occasion. His current position prevents him from such action, so instead, the shudder that rakes through his body hardens into ice, freezing his limbs and locking him into place. He immediately tugs his tail between his legs, afraid Akechi could grip and abuse the fragility of it.

Akechi.

Who’s supposed to think he’s dead.

“Cat got your tongue, Joker?” Akechi taunts him, so casually as if they hadn’t sat on the opposite sides of an interrogation room a week before.

The hand on the small of Akira’s back is a lingering threat that grows in significance by the second. Hot iron, sizzling through his clothes into his skin, burning him down to the bone.

Akira gulps, hastily tries to collect himself and shove down the rising panic within him. This is not how he planned this to go out. They were supposed to have more time, to confront him after everything is over-

Akira should have not underestimated the detective.

“Akechi,” Akira hastily says, hoping to snap the other out of his daze by forgoing his code name, “we can- we can talk this out.”

Akira curls his fingers into fists, stretching the material of his gloves when the hand on him tightens.

“Oh, Kurusu. Or should I call you Akira now?” Akechi laughs like it’s a joke. Akira bites his lips at the mention of his given name. It doesn’t feel wrong, but it’s definitely off. 

“I’m sure we can. You can tell me about your little plan in detail after I’m done.”

Akechi’s voice is slightly dulled due to the vent he's in, but there’s an unmistakable line of sharpness interwoven in his intonation, so different from the gentle lullaby his voice usually contains.

This is the Akechi that killed him without any pretense.

Hearing only thinly veiled ferocity freezes the air inside of his lungs.

_After I’m done._

Akira’s ears twitch in fear. Akechi isn’t one to use euphemisms for death, not after everything has been laid bare, which means he’s planning something else. 

And Akira’s too afraid to ask, not wanting to risk angering Akechi in this situation where he can only helplessly sit and stare into the darkness.

One wrong word and the game turned reality is over. 

He can taste that in the air. 

But as he repeats Akechi’s last sentence over and over in his head, Akira can’t figure out what he wants to do. Is Akechi planning to pull him out? Have a last duel face to face before he’d _really_ finish what he started? Or take him hostage to lure the other thieves out?

For the first time, Akira prays his friends _don’t_ come back, because something tells him Akechi’s still hiding something and that it’d end very, very badly if they were to confront him. 

Despite his words, Akechi still hasn’t moved – only came a little closer, if the warm presence at his backside is anything to go by.

A light yelp escapes him, disappearing into the echoes of a vent when another hand settles on the unoccupied side of his hips. Gloved, like the first, yet so insistent and heated that Akira’s painfully aware of where they’re lying, heat trickling past his pants into his bare skin, singeing it.

“A-akechi?” Akira tentatively asks, not knowing why his stomach has uncomfortably dipped into an unfamiliar direction in the span of only a few seconds, “What are you doing?”

“I’m doing what I should have a long time ago,” Akechi answers, the smirk graspable through the sounds of his words.

Fingers dig into the flesh of his cheeks and Akira’s eyes reflexively widen, breath catching in his throat as if someone’s choking him, preventing anything from getting out.

As if he knew anyway and wanted to coax more sounds out, Akechi squeezes even harder, like he wants to tear through the material of his hands by pressure only, thumbs starting to paint small circles as he begins to knead whatever part he can reach and fuck- Akira’s gotten massages from Kawakami before, but they were different and not concentrated on his ass and this feels so good too fast, slurring his pants that become ragged with each passing second.

“Are you enjoying this, Akira?” Akechi mocks from behind him, emphasizing his words with a particularly rough knead. “Because I know that I do. You make quite the enticing _sight,_ as sad as it is.”

Akechi’s hands feel so large as well, able to grip a supple amount of ass, applying different pressure to different places, alternating the pace and movements of his kneading. It makes forbidden notions of what else they could grab appear in Akira’s hazy head.

Akechi sometimes dips lower as well, to the bottom swell of his behind to caress the sensitive skin where thigh and ass meet. Akira’s thoughts come slow, the warmth at the tip of his fingertips trailing down his spin too fast for him to comprehend, leaving a trail of desire in their wake that makes it hard for Akira to not try and meet Akechi’s hands.

Exposed like this, Akira’s utterly helpless, at the mercy of the person who already killed him once.

Akira’s been doing a decent job at keeping his moans at bay, not wanting to give the other the impression he’s enjoying it, the way his deft hands skillfully work across his backside. Though the moan that’s been earlier stuck in his throat rips itself out when a hot hardness presses against him, settling itself on his cheeks, intimidating even through the material that parts them and hinting so very clear at what Akechi intends to do.

Fear ripples through him in cascades.

And what's even worse - it feels like Akechi’s still holding something back.

Like there’s something at the edge of his mind which he dangles just barely out of Akira’s reach, intangible except the rough impression of wary apprehension it leaves.

For now, though, Akechi… uses him like this, as if knowing he’ll get more the more patient he is, repressing his actual desires Akira doesn’t know he wants to find out. 

He shivers, the small tremors of his body accompanied by fingers shortly dipping into a sliver of skin between pants and vest.

Akira’s ears flatten in embarrassment for the whimper he couldn’t catch. He shoves his head into his shoulder, hoping the fire engulfing him in this small space is enough to swallow him whole along with the shreds of his dignity Akechi is slowly baring open by dismantling him, layer by layer.

At least the other can’t see how flushed and sweaty his face is, visible even through the obscurity of his mask. Blending the entire situation out seems impossible, not when Akechi’s presence is this intense, threatening to suffocate him-

One of Akechi’s hands breaks its kneading motion to glide higher, brushing tailcoats aside to dip into the waistband of his pants. Dread and heat simultaneously burst inside Akira’s stomach, sloshing his senses around. Akira’s previously curled his tail in on himself, wanting to give himself something to hold onto, but now it quickly shoots out, attempting to grab Goro’s wrist to prevent him from sliding his pants down because Akira is- wet.

He’s wet, slick having dripped out of his hole, and Akira’s only realized it now, mortification and implication hitting him at the same time like a whiplash.

How can he- how can he get _aroused_ in such a twisted situation, even if he _is_ crushing on the detective?

Akira’s lucky it didn’t seep through his pants already, or Akechi would have most likely abused that very much.

Akira’s tail curls around an arm and he squeezes as hard as he can. It doesn’t matter that Akechi can easily free himself out of Akira’s grasp, because Akira can’t possibly lay here and do nothing, let himself happily groped and fondled, cock already hard, hole releasing lubricant, sustaining the illusion that he wants this.

No, a concerning large part of Akira does, but this just feels wrong in itself, the entire issue about the complexity of their situation still not off the table, only momentarily pushed aside for Akechi’s desires.

But Akira’s body is just… _reacting,_ unable to fight the physical pleasure it’s gradually worn down with.

He feels Akechi still in his motion. It should scare Akira, but it also gives him enough respite for his head to clear just a little, words slowly coming back to him, surfacing from where they’ve sunken to the bottom of a sea. “Akechi,” he pants. “Please. Just pull me out and we can go over this. Talk about Shido, about-”

“I don’t give a damn about him right now,” Akechi growls before he breaks out into an uncharacteristic chuckle. A whiplash. For such a stark difference between those two sounds, they follow way too quickly after each other, causing Akira’s anxiety to amplify at the unraveling duality he’d only ever suspected. 

It clashes wildly with what his body has started to _yearn_ for. 

But there’s nothing Akira can do. He may be able to tear off his mask, but he just _knows_ it wouldn’t work, would only serve to encourage the anger Akira feels in the increased pressure on his body. 

In his current state, Akechi’s too unpredictable for him to comprehend anything, limiting his options to… nothing. 

Akechi frees himself effortlessly out of the poor imitation of a hold. What Akira doesn’t expect though is that his tail is suddenly being gripped – not too harshly, not too softly – and a part of his brain simply shuts down, eyes rolling back against his head as his whole body jerks, the sensation of his tail being touched like this completely overtaking him.

* * *

Curiously, experimentally, Goro kneads the appendage in his hand. The fur is unmistakably black, shining in the low lighting. Well groomed. He knows that despite his slouch and same style of clothing, Akira takes good care of himself – cats have a high hygiene standards, after all.

Somehow, the thought pisses him off even more.

It looks so small in his hands, undoubtedly alive. Trying to get away from his touch, yet unable to with how firmly Goro’s gripping. Why would it want to escape in the first place?

Isn't Goro _good_ enough?

This is a part of Akira Goro’s always wanted to touch, both rough and carefully, wanting to see if it’s really as sensitive as the internet makes it seem, tug at the tip, tug at the base, let it glide through his hand like liquid darkness.

He’s so entranced by Akira’s tail that Goro only notices how much his gentle touching is affecting Akira when a small barrage of moans breach his mind.

He snaps back to reality, watching Akira’s back arch as best as it could when Goro rubs his thumb into the tip of Akira’s tail just a tad harder to confirm his suspicions. 

“Akechi-”

Of course he gets off of this.

Goro knows it’s probably meant to be a defiant cry, but it sounds so suggestive, the way it’s pushed out of Akira like a moan. More sounds follow, pleads interwoven with shivers visibly raking through Akira’s spine and the entirety of it all makes Goro even harder in his pants, causing him to press against the tantalizing curve of Akira’s ass even closer, wishing to be inside already.

This is a much better reaction than he hoped. “So sensitive,” Goro smirks, gently encasing Akira’s tail with all of his fingers. “and so honest in comparison to your mouth.”

_Filthy._

He slides down, keeping the pressure and monster at bay, feeling every individual knob which enables the muscle’s flexibility that always drove Goro wild.

Goro wants to squeeze. Loki wants to see how much force it’d take to break.

And oh, how much Goro _wants_ to see his rival in pieces. Beyond repair, beyond any Samarecarm. Blood splattered across the wall like an afterimage.

Dripping, collecting at his feet, enriching the sole of his boots.

Only Goro would be privy to Akira’s last moments on earth. 

No one else.

Akira would be eternally dead, eternally _his,_ a memory Goro’d wear with sadistic glee.

But then Goro wouldn’t be able to see his defiant expression, the _spirit of his rebellion_ that enticed and intrigued him in the first place again. He knows he’ll never find another rival like this. Akira is unique, a once in a lifetime experience, so full and bright that it matches the hazardous hollows of Goro’s life like nothing else. 

Killing him sounds… too fleeting. 

Incomplete. 

He doesn’t want Akira to plead for his life just _once._

He wants to hear it over and over again. Poison Akira with pleasure and confused feelings as retaliation for what he did to Goro. 

He wants Akira to despise and long for him in the same breath, never able to part and live without him, just like Goro hates and adores Akira with every fiber of his body, a feeling so intense it beckons more thoughts forward, thoughts that would threaten a plan he crafted with bloody hands and isolated hate over years.

Though maybe…

... maybe he’ll make it work.

Akira’s moan vibrates through Goro’s entire system.

He unconsciously gripped stronger when the conflicted mess of feelings he has for Akira briefly took over, and Goro grits his teeth, annoyed at how easily the other is making him lose his composure without even trying yet again. 

Just his fucking existence is enough to set Goro off balance.

Though Akira’s moan was somehow more muffled than before. It sounded like he’s biting into something, and the thought of Akira having to do that in order to hide how Goro’s affecting him causes him to chuckle darkly.

How wonderful.

He greedily watches Akira’s legs quiver, back side shaking when he’s reached the base of Akira's tail.

It merges neatly into his tailbone which is exposed from when Goro’s pushed his tailcoat and parts of his vest up.

Rubbing insistent circles into the skin around his tail, Goro picks up the motion of his other hands again, enjoying how soft and yet tight Akira feels in his hands. How easily he’d bruise. But Akira’s pants are really getting in his way now.

Goro wants to touch, mark, bruise him without any layer preventing him from feeling Akira’s heat directly, so he starts to pull his pants and boxers down in one go, letting them dangle somewhere around his thighs to look at the prize he’s only been waiting for.

That’s rightfully his.

The sight that greets him nearly makes him purr – not only for the enticing swell of an ass Goro’s spent watching quite a while, No. He half expected this from earlier, the little ruts he allowed himself on Akira’s backside hinting at something that only curled the smirk on his face wider.

Akira’s hole is actually glistening. Wet, some sort of natural lubricant having started to accumulate there, dripping down his sides to the inwards of his thighs in a trail Goro can’t help but want to lap up.

“Such a deprived kitten,” Goro chuckles, thumbing at the rim, watching it flutter with wetness. It seeps through his glove. “Your body betrays you.”

Akira’s body knows what’s going to happen, anticipates it, readies itself for Goro and Goro only.

“N-no,” Akira says, _pleads_ in a voice so shaky that Goro feels _drunk._ “Please, Akechi, don’t do this-”

It’s the first time Goro wishes to see Akira’s face, if only to revel in the mortification that’s undoubtedly showing at the moment.

The fear, the disgust as realizing he can’t do anything to prevent Goro from doing what he wants mixed with the terrible foreboding how his body will react.

The desire to just take a hold of his cock and bury himself in what Goro knows will be wonderful, heated bliss is positively overwhelming.

It’ll hurt for Akira, just like Goro would want to despite the natural lubricant. But physical pain and agony is _easy._

Easy to get used to, easy to defend against.

No, Goro needs to do the exact opposite and reduce Akira into a pathetic, mewling mess that can only beg for his his touch. 

Besides, Goro wants to feel this open depravity for himself. 

He has time, after all. If the other Thieves catch him, Loki will make quick work of them - their leader is the only challenge, and currently served on a plate for him. 

Goro chugs his gloves off, firing them into a random direction before taking hold of Akira’s tail again, enjoying the way Akira’s body bows as much as it can, like a tightly strung instrument.

He’ll enjoy tuning it to his touch only. 

Goro lowers his head a little – fuck, he smells good too. And before he knows it, he’s on his knees – on his knees for a filthy thief, for someone that should drop down for _him_ , lavish the hardness of his desire with tongue and hooded eyes only while Goro’d card his hand mockingly soft through tantalizing curls, only to brutally tug forward when Akira would least expect it.

Another time.

Goro darts his tongue out, licking a lone trail of slick up. The taste melts on his tongue faster than he’d like. More droplets immediately leave the hole as Akira squirms, and Goro growls, pries his cheek apart as best as he can with one hand to get better access, intent on chasing the taste with his tongue and mind and the aggression and frustration to match.

He’ll drag Akira down to his level, _below it,_ show him he’s inferior in spite of their position.

Just like it should be. 

* * *

Akechi’s has him reduced to a sobbing mess within minutes. 

It’s shameful, how much Akira’s body wants this, how a part of Akira’s mind is complying as well, working steadily on convincing Akira to just give in – push back, entice Akechi to dip his tongue even deeper, but he holds on what little resistance he has to himself, biting into the fabric of his leather coat to stifle the sounds he can.

Begging only makes everything worse, Akira knows now. 

The vent has started to feel incredibly hot. Sweat drips down his forehead, collects in the dip of his lips, and Akira laps it up the same moment Akechi pulls out to just suck on his rim and Akira swears he isn’t this debauched, this desperate, but Akechi’s still got his tail in his hands and there’s a reason why Akira established the no touching policy, one that only Ryuji dared to break occasionally.

His tail is fucking sensitive. Akira feels every touch, every drag along it, worsened by the naked state of Akechi’s fingers. God, Akira imagined them curling at the base of his tail, those pretty, long fingers that hold a coffee delicately and a sword more confidently than one would assume. 

Imagined them in his mouth, gloved so that Akira would be drooling around leather that belongs to Akechi like tail and ears belong to Akira, imagined them around his cock, inside of him, curling and teasing him in the worst ways until all Akira knows is to beg.

How often he’d came to these fantasies, trying to replicate what his thoughts provided with his own fingers and whines buried into a pillow.

This is much different than what Akira imagined, but there’s absolutely no escape to it.

And it still feels so disgustingly good, the way Akechi rubs along Akira’s tail, massaging it suggestively, circling his base at times before driving upwards, keeping a tight ring. 

Ryuji had only ever tugged too hard, and what could have been embarrassing pleasure distorted into genuine pain too quickly for anyone to notice. And combined with the ministration of Akechi’s tongue, Akira feels impossibly hard, the tip of his cock just barely hitting the wall with each rut and squirm he fails to suppress, and it just makes everything so much worse.

Akira can stifle his moans, but he can’t hide the high whimper vibrating from his throat through what feels like his stomach when Goro suddenly tugs- not harsh, not fast, but firm and with intent and Akira doesn’t realize how overloaded his senses until the moment he feels his cock twitch, release hurling his entire body out of its orbit, encompassing him too fast, too intensely for his ailed mind to keep up.

“A-Akechi-!!”

Akira slumps down, his head hitting the floor of the vent. He’s no longer biting into his shoulder, his pants freely heating up the space around him so that Akira feels like he’s widening the abyss he’s been drowning in.

Akechi’s removed his mouth and stopped the motion of his hand, something Akira is glad for. Even the heat of Akechi’s presence feels too much on his body right now.

“Did you just cum?”

Akechi sounds fascinated, if Akira wouldn’t know any better. Or maybe he’s disgusted that Akira came from this only.

His cheeks burn with intense shame, and he doesn’t answer, knowing he doesn’t have any words to justify how he found relief so easily at his captor’s hands. 

“So deprived.” Akechi’s voice is laced with something Akira can only identify as restrained hunger. “You never cease to amaze me, even in the most unorthodox ways.”

As if he’s mulling something over, contemplating, thinking what he should do to him.

Akechi feels different now, the finger tracing growing harder in its demands. Akira keeps the trembling out of his body, but fails to keep his heart from picking up its pace, thundering so loud that Akira’s afraid it travels down the vent, reverberating off the walls and spreading into rooms for everyone to hear. 

“This makes me wonder if I could...”

Akechi doesn’t finish the sentence, and Akira feels like prey.

He’s a horrible mix of clashing emotions, lust and primal fear regularly playing hunt and chase through his body without concern for anything else.

Akira squirms when hot flesh nudges at the tip of his hole. He hasn’t heard when Akechi freed himself out of his confines, but how could he if his own pants are so loud, the blood rushing in his ears so fast, Akechi’s voice so consuming?

Akechi doesn’t put his cock just yet in. But he teases at what he’ll do, drags the length of it across Akira’s puffy entrance in a clear message. Lubricating himself. Akechi lets go of his tail, rubs the skin from where it protrudes – it feels weirdly intimate, the way his fingers work around it, slotting against the base of it so easily.

Akira hates how good it feels, how it forces him to relax with just a few kneads.

He wants to cry, but _can’t._

And then Akechi pushes inside.

Akira claws at everything inside his reach, trying to find a resemblance of purchase, anything to keep him grounded as Goro forces himself inside, but there’s nothing, his glove slide off, and Goro’s cock is breaching his walls so effortlessly that Akira screams his throat raw. 

“I should just keep you,” Akechi says in between grunts. His hands grip Akira’s hips with bruising force, and Akira isn’t sure if Akechi feels this large just because it’s his first time. “Instead of using and killing you, I should put a collar around your pretty throat. My name on it. Would you like that, kitten?”

Akira hates this, hates the way his brain immediately supplies him with a fitting image, hates how his whole body convulses.

Akechi moans. His pace momentarily falters, as if Akira’s reaction to his filthy words affect him just as much. He makes up for his brief lapse in time by driving his length into him even faster than before, making Akira helplessly jostle forward and backwards with each thrust.

“I thought so. Ahh- I’d take you back with me, tie you to my bed. Keep you open and ready for me all the time.”

Akira’s brain is still able to comprehend his words, but it only makes everything worse, twisting the churning insides of his stomach into something unpleasantly addicting. His sobs echo through the vent. Akira prays none of his friends are here to witness this, hopes they’re far away, out of the sounds of wet skin meeting in crescendo.

“Do you want that, Akira?” Akechi asks, accentuating the question with a snap of his hips so hard that Akira sees stars, head slamming against the top of the vent. “Do you want that, kitten? My collar around your throat, with a leash I’d tug at everytime you beg for me to stuff you full of my cum?”

“Akechi,” Akira cries, because it’s too much. Stop. “Please,” he instead moans out, and Akechi makes a noise between a debauched moan and a growl, yanking at Akira’s tail with a force that hurts so fucking much, but Akira’s body is long past the state of caring, accepting each sensation like it’s completely starved of any feeling, and Akira’s release splatters against the wall like his broken cry reverberates of dark metal.

His walls are mercilessly constricting around Akechi. It only takes a few more thrust for the other to finally cum, hot seed filling Akira from the inside out, making him feel even dirtier.

And Akira isn’t somewhere afloat, isn’t in another dimension, doesn’t black out – he’s fully, awfully aware of the cum leaking from his hole as Akechi pulls out, how sweaty his clothing is, how weak he feels, crumbled in on himself in a vent, even as the last remains of bliss make his body quiver in random intervals.

Raped by his murderer. 

Akira thinks there are dark silhouettes at the end of the vent from where he’s turned his head to, but it’s so dark and nothing moves so he can’t be sure. It could be a trick of his mind, taunting him with the possibility that the other Phantom Thieves might have seen him for god knows how long, helpless against the cock spearing him open, hands working his resolve away, words getting under his skin and making him feel terrible, terrible things. 

Akira can barely see anything, least of all Akechi, but something in the charged air changes nonetheless.

There’s a call of _Loki_ , and it feels like darkness encases him from behind, drapes around his skin like a second layer.

Strong, powerful.

_Chaos._

There’s something sharp at the small of his back now – are those claws? Dragging across the sensitive skin, and Akira doesn’t know what’s happening except that there’s a horrible, horrible sound as the vent is brutally _torn open_ with a force that’s beyond Akira.

He’s pulled out in the next moment. Weak as he is, he's cradled against a strong chest. 

The last thing Akira sees before a dull pain at the base of his neck knocks him out are gleaming, red eyes behind a black mask. 

**Author's Note:**

> Blacking out is convenient when it comes to ending porn, ok?
> 
> With this fic, all the dubious / non-con scenarios are finally out of the way. The last three days are definitely softer and healthier, promised!
> 
> I also prefer Akira wity tinyass hips lol but he works wide ones too. For the sake of this fic, I suppose!
> 
> [My (mostly) Akeshu twitter!](https://twitter.com/voraciousTash)


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